


Shaped to Fit

by StripySock



Series: Indulgence. [2]
Category: Les Misérables (2012), Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: Cock Worship, Hand Jobs, Large Cock, M/M, Masturbation, UST
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-04-06
Updated: 2013-04-06
Packaged: 2017-12-07 16:23:36
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,336
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/750534
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/StripySock/pseuds/StripySock
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sequel to <a href="http://archiveofourown.org/works/699836">Cut From Whole Cloth</a></p>
<p>In which Javert succumbs to the temptation that Madeleine presents him with.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Shaped to Fit

The next day is spent in an agony of indecision. Javert does not lie, he does not protest against what he knows to be true. He cannot deny that his body longs for the mayor in ways that he should not permit and can not explain or justify in any way except to acknowledge the simple fact that he sins in thought and word and deed, and that he has an accomplice in this misfortune (for so he views it.) He knows that he should wrench these thoughts from his bosom, erase it from his soul, cast it from like a snake lest it poison him further and render him incapable of telling right and wrong. That he should cleanse himself of the mayor's touch and pass him by on the street, avoiding that sinful display that so inflames his passion, that unchecked by law and devoid of restraint rushes through his limbs so that they shake violently at the mere thought of wicked hands and mouth against him.

 

And yet a cool, dry dispassionate side of his nature argues the cause of his thoughts with a logic that cannot be denied. It is not forbidden by the laws of man, it insists, and he counters that it is forbidden by the laws of God. This stills him for a little while, until traitorous thought reminds him that he is not paid nor asked to uphold the law of God. He does not wear a priest's cassock, nor does he preach from the holy book. To say otherwise is to apportion himself a place that is not his, to undertake rights and responsibilities that were not placed upon him and he shudders at the thought. Render unto God that which is God's, and unto Caesar what is Caesar, and Javert belongs to Caesar as he always has. He cannot tear his mind from the torrent that tumbles through it. Can not set aside his thoughts and this shames him more than he could believe.

 

On paper, marked in pencil there are inscribed the words _Javert: Job left undone_  a mark of reproach, engraved where all can see. Twice he takes up the rubber to erase it, and twice he sets it down. He may destroy the markings if he so wills, and yet the intent will linger. He will know, even if none other knows what he longs to do, what he came so close to doing, and in his mind's eye he sees once again the thick bulge of want that had pressed so certainly against Madeleine's leg, that had spoken without words of the need that bled through his soul, and he feels himself tremble at the thought. What can be done, he thinks helplessly. He feels hunger that he has never felt before, feels a passion that cannot be denied. As a body yearns for bread, and the eyes for light, so his soul stretches unerringly towards the other man, not merely a physical hunger, but almost a spiritual.

 

He spends the day and the night in an agony of spirit and mind that is not washed away by the coming of the swift soft rain, nor by the darkening of the sky. He lies immobile when his job is done, and runs unceasingly. There is a desperate tinge now to his thoughts, a begging for the cessation of the need that he feels, and the growing certainty that he can find it one place only. He is not accustomed to this, has not so laid himself bare in mind and thought and deed even to himself let alone another, and he longs for certainty, longs for a peace he is unlikely to attain. And yet the calm side of his nature also offers a warning. Javert is not so overwhelmed by the physical presence of his mayor that he can put aside his doubts. There is something that does not ring true about him, that impinges and disrupts his thoughts. Again he does not lie to himself. Regardless of who or what Madeleine is there is one thing at least he cannot change or shake, one thing he cannot deny or disguise and that is his body, and it is this that Javert concerns himself with.

 

Madeleine makes his pilgrimage to the church along with the respectable town folks each way, and Javert feels no need to acclaim his piety. Madeleine succours the poor, gives aid where he can, but Javert does not envy or admire his charitability. Madeleine hides secrets behind his eyes and behind his affable demeanour, that Javert indeed suspects, but though he will work tirelessly to ensure those who deserve it are held to accountability, still this does not concern him in this moment. What does concern him is how distracted and perilously weakened he is himself in this moment. How can he work as he should if all he can think about, all he can imagine is the wanton sight of the mayor and his open hands?

 

Spread before his feet lie a multitude of paths. He does not trust Madeleine though he may respect him, but Javert suspects that in this at least he can trust, the hard thrust of bodies, the arching need of mouths. Madeleine would be as implicated in this as Javert after all, and the look in his eyes had been genuine hunger. Javert can read a man, can see beneath his skin in at least some respects, and he has arrested too many men in the throes of passion not to recognise how it may spark in the faces of those it engulfs. He does not doubt Madeleine’s want, as he does not doubt his own. He only fears the satiation and what will result from such a topsy-turvying of order.

 

For the sake of peace, for the sake of order, he might have sought refuge, sought to be consumed in the furnace of desire, but luckily for the sake of his peace of mind and his half-formed understanding of himself, it is not he who yields, it is not he who asks. He is summoned by Madeleine to his office the next day, and he watches and waits, does not allow the hot blood to flush his cheeks at the thought of what they had done. The mirror is in its accustomed position once more, there is no reflection of their lust, of their need. None that is but the unaccustomed openness of Madeleine’s face as he perches on his desk and apologises.

 

“I ask your forgiveness,” Madeleine says slowly, but there is nothing humble about the words. He does not abase himself as another man might. Does not tremble before the law and in this Javert reads the blossoming of the seeds which he has always suspected. There is a suppleness to the Mayor, body and mind that Javert distrusts and yet yearns for, and as the heavy blood sings through his veins, Javert redirects his glance to the heavy pot which steams upon the table as he ponders on his reply.

 

“Given,” he says finally, and clenches his hands behind his back to prevent himself from reaching out. Icarus was burnt by his foolishness in refusing to conform to the parameters which he had been issued by his superior. Javert will not allow himself to be consumed whole in the sun, not without due cause, not without signed dockets and countersigned mandates. He has been of the law long enough to know that though sacrifices may be required that to be the body bent back on the altar is not wise, is not commendable and he is yet to meet a situation that has not proved him right. Despite everything that Madeleine is, despite all the things that give Javert cause to distrust him (not rational perhaps but he is enough of a student of nature to understand that what seems right and clear to one, is a murky cloud to another) Javert trusts that in this he means no harm. In this Madeleine is as helpless as Javert to resist whatever it is that blossoms here like some dark flower.

 

Madeleine lets a smile cross his features and gestures at the tea. “May I offer you a cup?” he inquires and Javert hesitates. By rights he should decline but he’s no fool. He understands the silent contract and possibilities of the moments that have just passed, and curiosity burns through his veins in a hot flood. This is unshaped, unformed, chaotic and he is strangely tempted to test himself against it, and he nods briefly. Madeleine rises to secure the cup and Javert cannot help his glance. Madeleine has not remedied his attire, has not sought to conceal or to shrink into retiring modesty, and Javert can feel his lips thin at the same time as a well of fresh need springs up within him. His look is interpreted correctly, and Madeleine speaks frankly. “Good Inspector,” he says and if perchance there was mockery in his tone which Javert doubts indeed, it is well hidden. “I thank you for the concerns that you were gracious enough to raise with me. It is this stalwart service that proves such a credit to the town and I am certain that you have their thanks as well as mine. However my tailor informs me that new trousers will take some time to create and I cannot go naked until they are complete.”

 

In any other man such words would have been a tease, a distasteful jest, but Madeleine is solemn and Javert unbends enough to incline his head in acknowledgement of the words. He is hopeful perhaps that the entire sordid incident can be placed behind him, when as though he can exercise no control over his mind he is overwhelmed with those images that had driven him so hard to the point of ecstasy the night before. In his mind’s eye he does not stand upright, he entices forth the full splendour of the mayor’s prick, watches it push against the fabric, strain at the confinement forced upon it. Madeleine does not protest in his mind’s eye, he sighs and allows Javert to look his fill, presses one large hand against the even larger bulge, and Javert trembles where he stands, has to replace the cup upon the desk before his hands can betray his sudden weakness, blesses the length of his coat. There is a sudden dampness in his mouth as though it waters at the mere thought and he swallows. “I must depart,” he says, but his resolve is twisting and unthreading, thin ribbons of will unpicked, and his limbs are filled with lethargy.

 

Madeleine circles round the desk, kind face and eyes that are darkened with some emotion that Javert cannot name. “Would you flee from this?” he asks, and the words fall like stones in a simple pool of silence.

 

Intellectually, Javert understands. Madeleine is using his pride to ensnare him, the belief that Javert will not flee from such a demand on his courage. He does not understand what Javert is. His courage is incidental, necessary to fulfill his duties on a daily basis, to let it be more to let it define him would be to abandon the law that will sometimes require him to act on self preservation. Yet he does not leave nor does he correct the assumption in Madeleine’s breast. This man whatever he may be, is not Javert’s friend. “What would you have me do?” he asks, and it is no concession, merely a question desirous of an answer, and he links his hands behind his back for long seconds.

 

There is hesitation before Madeleine steps closer. He smells sweet, of something that Javert cannot name, perhaps of some flower he has never seen, not heavy or cloying, just pervasive and intimate. This close Javert can see the lines on his skin, the prickle of his stubble, the indentation of his lip, can feel the warmth that he exudes as though under his skin burns a fire. Javert is always cold though he does not know why. He is close enough that if Javert leaned in they would share life giving breath. Somewhere close to Javert nestles Madeleine’s prick, he knows this and it is with simple ease in the end that he touches. Yesterday it had been fully hard, too large to be grasped through clothing, heated and insistent against his hand. Now though it is still quiescent, a sleeping form under Madeleine’s clothes, and only a shaky indrawn breath informs Javert’s movements.

 

Under his hands, under his unskilled touch it awakens, and Javert watches as it lengthens and thickens as the blood fills it, and Madeleine’s eyelashes flutter onto his cheek and his mouth widens as though to inhale more air. He dares a look down and must close his eyes himself with the tidal wave of whatever it is that sweeps through him. Against the grey cloth his hand is rough and large, but it is not this that draws his attention. Madeleine is if possible even harder than the day before, an obscene bulge against his trousers that must almost hurt, the constriction is so close, and driven by instinct, Javert rubs a thumb across where he approximates the tip of the head is and Madeleine tips his head back and lets a breathy sigh escape. Javert inspired by a force he cannot understand or name does not cease his actions, continues to caress and rub through the trousers, declining thought or qualm, content to palm at the flesh, to soak in the heat, admire the spectacle of this loss of control. Perhaps they would have stood there for eternity, if Madeleine’s prick had not been as generous in product as it was in portion. Where the head of his prick pressed cruelly against the fabric there now blossomed a dark stain, and Javert broke off from his self-appointed duty to breathe in himself, and press a hand against his own aching cock.

 

It was no longer enough to merely caress Madeleine in such a fashion, and Javert understood the lure of sin as though he teetered on a precipice. Once one need was sated, another was created, more powerful than the last. In his fevered imaginings this had been enough, now he wished to heft Madeleine’s prick in his hand, to feel the heavy weight of it, to indulge his wanton thrusts, and with a broken cut off exclamation he undid Madeleine’s trousers , and not without difficulty obtained the object of his goal. There was no protest from Madeleine, his eyes were dark and empty as helplessly he shook in Javert’s grasp. If ever Javert had suspected evil doings in _this_  matter  on the Mayor’s part those concerns were assuaged. Madeleine could not deceive in this moment, could do nothing but thrust into Javert’s hands as though he could not stop himself.

 

The promise of his advertisement did not disappoint. The mass of his prick in Javert’s hand was solid, considerable, immense and Javert hesitated for a long moment, unsure in this vital second how to wring from Madeleine what he wished, until the thrust of Madeleine’s hips made it clear that finesse was not necessary, perhaps not appreciated. Javert stroked it with firm strokes, watched the tip well with liquid, brushed a thumb over it, biting back a _mon Dieu_  at how wet it was under his grasp, taking advantage of it as he slowly, reverently undertook his task. Madeleine had run out of words, a long time ago and at some point had found the desk to lean back on, as Javert pleased them both with his languorous exploration. Thought had long fled from his own mind, swallowed whole in the moment, all that mattered was the slick slide of his hand against pressured heated flesh, the involuntary movements against his hand, a single minded mania, the sharp intent and will that focused so hard on each given task now turned to accomplishing this. Madeleine was large enough that one hand could not finish the task and Javert turned both to it, an unending inexorable slide of hands against skin, calloused thumb brushing against the exposed head, foreskin drawn back by Madeleine’s arousal as the other hand massaged the base, and with a peculiar tentative diffidence dared to attempt a fondle at the balls which caused another surge of the precome that slicked Javert’s hand now as though fingers between his thighs were not unpleasant.

 

Madeleine’s hips were moving feverishly now, his fingers tangled in Javert’s coat, strong thighs twisting against the confines of trousers tugged down only to mid-thigh as though anxious to expose himself fully, and Javert leaned helplessly against him, shattered breath ripped from him as Madeleine’s prick slipped sweetly through his fingers, an impossible reality made whole before him, and something in his stomach clenched. Madeleine was close but not close enough and Javert shuddered with the need to crush them closer, and as his fingers almost slipped from the wet width of the mayor’s prick, he switched hands and without conscious thought tasted the slick that coated his fingers. Madeleine’s gasp at the sight, wrenched from his daze at the action, clenched at Javert’s stomach and he felt himself convulse at the thought of Madeleine’s prick in his mouth, of tasting and touching, his lips stretched wide and impossible as Madeleine shivered and fell apart, the heaviness of it on his tongue, the strange sharp bitterness of his production flooding his mouth, and Javert could no longer control himself, heedless of dignity he shrugged aside his coat aided by Madeleine’s fumbling fingers, wrenched open his own trousers and with dexterity he had not imagined he possessed stroked them both in the swift rhythm that was as natural to him as breathing, until Madeleine spread his legs as best as he could and drew him in closer until they more rutted against each other than employed any fineness of motion or skill of hand. Madeleine’s prick was sliding wetly against Javert’s for long impossible moments at a time, not enough friction, not enough of anything but still good enough to send tremors down Javert’s spine, not merely that he was touched like this, but that the prick against his was Madeleine’s, and it was with clenched shut eyes and open mouth that heedless of decorum he came, hotly and wetly on Madeleine, emptying himself in blind pulses of need, a pent back flood that left him gasping as Madeleine rutted against him a little more, fingers between them, his capable hand around his own magnificent prick before he came as well with dizzying speed.

 

Javert did not know how long they gasped, mingled bodies against each other, before he drew back to restore the shreds of his shattered composure. It was long before he could settle himself, could withdraw his eyes from the sight of the white semen against Madeleine’s rumpled clothing, could tug his eyes from the still majestic curve of Madeleine’s prick, and re-clothe himself. Madeleine himself made no effort to hide himself, his trousers ruined now, his gaze still fever-bright and fixed on Javert as though he too experienced a tumult of feeling. Eventually he drew himself together, and with soiled hands and trembling gait rounded the desk again to once again rebuild his mask.

 

Woodenly Javert drew on his coat, and washed his hands tremblingly with the damp cloth that Madeleine heedless of respectability had dunked in the water jug and offered to him. He was wrung out himself, mind empty and still for these moments at least. “I shall have my general report ready at the usual time,” he said at the last, and Madeleine nodded as though words were too difficult for him to fashion. Outside the air was cold and he hesitated for long moments, the warmth of the house at his back before he set off home for his lodgings.

 

**Author's Note:**

> Feedback always welcome.


End file.
